


our reflections

by impossible_rat_babies



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27483976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossible_rat_babies/pseuds/impossible_rat_babies
Summary: It’s a long while before he opens the bathroom door, busted lip stitched up, contusions covered with bandages and butterfly closures clinging to his cheekbone. The pain is dull, water still clinging to the glass and pain medication discarded on the tile counter.It’s not dark with the blinds open, the moon nearly full and casting long lines that tinge the bedroom with navy blue.Miraculously, Mason’s there.Sitting in his laundry chair, hands clasped between his legs, grey eyes traveling up to find his eyes. Ava must’ve told him to stay, or Pollux vainly thinks he wanted to stay.
Relationships: Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), NB Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	our reflections

**Author's Note:**

> cw: blood and violence

Feet stumbling over each other, Pollux’s shoulder slams into the door and he curses loudly. Pain radiates down his arm and into his ribs, scattering across his shoulder blades and ending at the headache welling across his scalp. Breath catching, pain making his diaphragm stutter but he knows this well. Pause, close his eyes, lean against the door, and take a few deep breaths to ease the tightness.

He licks his lips, freshly wet with new blood sliding from his nostrils and he winces; he hopes it isn’t broken, goddamn it. He doesn’t fancy a trip to Doctor Turner this late and get scolded like he’s fifteen again and got into yet another fight after school. Or worse, getting carted off to the Agency so he can get scolded like he’s just a child who can’t take care of himself. Not to mention everyone would hover and Rebecca would throw a fit over what happened and he’s not at all in the right mind to deal with her right now.

He yanks his keys out of the door lock despite the pain spiking through his hands and wrists and he dumps them on his little console table. He flexes his hands, clenching them into a fists and relaxing them. His usual joints pop and crackle, but none of his fingers feel broken or dislocated. The scabs across his knuckles flex and crack, new blood seeping through along with fresh pain to batter against his senses.

He gently kicks the door shut and leans against the table, closing his eyes once more. The pain is still fresh in his shoulders and down across his ribs and he reaches under his cardigan and he feels across his torso. Pressing against the bones and there’s no sharpness, just the familiar ache of bruises. Not cracked thankfully. Still, it hurts like hell and he sucks in a sharp breath that burns his nose. He wipes away the hot fresh blood on his sleeve, looking down at the dark streak staining the fabric.

There’s blood that isn’t his own splattered across his shirt, staining under his nails, in the cracks of his callouses. Thought it would be worse, all things considered. 

Sure, he’d gotten the wind knocked out of him, but he’s been through worse and still come back swinging. There’ll be new dents in his car come the morning and maybe some blood to wash off when he clambers out of bed, but that’s for tomorrow Pollux to worry about. Today Pollux would be more than happy to sleep for the next week and a half and ignore everything else outside of his apartment. 

Maybe he will.

He wrangles himself out of his cardigan, shaking his arm from the offending sleeve and it lands on the floor in a heap that he kicks to the side. Works his shoes off too, abandoning them, shuffling past the tiny entryway and into his living room. Groping blindly through the dark for his bedroom door, he wishes he’d left a lamp on.

“Pollux?”

A voice in the dark and he turns sharply, panic seizing his chest, eyes searching through the dark. His hands clench into tight fists that break the fresh scabs, heart racing in his chest.

“Hey sweetheart, it’s just me...”

Soothing—familiarity in that deep voice, recognition in his scrambled brain. A sharp sudden light from a lamp clicking on and Pollux winces, holding up his hand to block it.

“Fucking hell,” he peers out from behind the bright light and Mason is standing there, the butt of a cigarette hanging from his lips. “Should’ve said something sooner, you asshole...” He huffs, voice hoarse and he clears his throat. There’s the taste of blood on the back of his tongue and he swallows.

“Don’t blame me. I just got down from the roof when you hobbled in.”

Mason snips and Pollux snorts despite the pain. In the dim yellow light he spots the balcony door still open, curtains fluttering in the dull breeze. Of course he used the fire escape instead of the normal people stairs up to the roof.

“Wait, you were hiding around my apartment building?” Pollux asks, rattling his brain for whomever is supposed to be on watch with him tonight and he could’ve sworn they were past this shit. At least Pollux thought since he’d been extraordinarily clear with Ava how he felt on the matter. Quite loud about it too if his memory served right.

Pleas on deaf ears he supposes.

“Better question,” Mason counters, making his way through his living room and closer to him. “You look like utter shit.”

If Pollux didn’t know better, he’d say there’s a biting edge of concern to his tone, grey eyes flickering in the dull light reflected off the wall.

“Thanks asshole. Flattery will get you everywhere.” Pollux bites back, lips curling back.

“Why?”

First instinct catches Pollux, lying before he can think not to.

“It’s nothing—“ he quickly shuts his mouth, biting his tongue.

That doesn’t work anymore—not with Mason, not with any of them. They all read him like a book, know his littlest tells for his lies and Pollux hates it--that hate sitting in his stomach, frustration in his curled fists. He’s invested what little dignity the years haven’t stripped from him in his lies and even still, unit bravo spare him no expense.

“I handled it, it’s not as bad as it looks. I’m fine...” Pollux looks away, finding a nice dark corner to stare into. Saying it’s fine is just another way to lie, but he’s past semantics.

“What happened, Pollux?” Mason presses and Pollux shrugs through the pain, crossing his arms over his chest, burying his bruised and bloodied hands in his armpits.

“There’s nothing to say! Nothing happened, I’m fine.”

“Bullshit, what happened, Pollux?”

Pollux licks the backside of his teeth, frustration building like nervous energy in his legs and hands, the little voice in the back of his mind growing louder. Mason steps closer and Pollux pulls back against the wall, pulling his arms in tighter.

(Take one more step, just one more)

“Trappers, okay?” Pollux admits. “They jumped me in the parking lot of the station near my car. Three of four of them--didn’t get a good look.”

The dark corner is his friend, keeping his eyes off of Mason but he still hears the sharp intake of his breath, feels his eyes on him.

(Stop looking at me like that)

“Pollux, you--” Mason cuts himself off, growling low in the back of his throat. “You didn’t think to call us? To call me?”

“No, sorry I was more concerned about getting out of there than sticking around for a stupid phone call.” Pollux spits back, meeting Mason’s glare with one of his own.

“Were you going to call when you got back here? What were you gonna go do?”

“What did it look like I was doing, asshole? I was gonna go to my bathroom and make sure my nose isn’t fucking broken!”

Mason pinches the bridge of his nose and Pollux holds his meager ground, hands stuffed in his armpits clenching down hard.

“And after that?”

“Jesus christ, I was gonna go to sleep! Or I dunno, eat a bowl of cereal and smoke a fucking cigarette!” Pollux spits, grinding his teeth. “I don’t need to tell you all every bit of my life! I can take care of this myself! I don’t need help all the time, I’m not just some stupid human who needs his hand held and told ‘oh boohoo are you okay honey’ whenever things go wrong!”

Pollux mocks, more words bubbling up in his throat but they get clogged on his tongue, too many to say. Maybe they’re excuses, or lies and he wants to say them—wants to take the worst of them and smash them together into the worst he can think of and then shove it in Mason’s face. Make him take a step back, or maybe leave because he can never just ask. He’s asked too many times, begged people over the phone and no one ever listens--like screaming through a glass window.

Talk is cheap and hands say more than their fair share.

“....fucking hopeless.” Mason grumbles to himself and Pollux bunches his fingers tightly in his shirt.

“If you’re gonna talk then shit say it to my face, Mason.” Pollux spits his name and he knows he’s playing chicken with a speeding car—sooner or later he’s going to get hit. 

Mason turns on him, anger drawing his lips into a snarl and frustration tensing his shoulders,

(take one more step, I swear to god) 

“I said...” He starts slow, meeting his grey eyes and there’s a vicious storm in that grey, “you’re fuckin’ hopeless, Pollux.”

“Good.”

Pollux grinds out, voice low. There’s a hundred meanings in that four letter word, all of them stuffed in the five feet between them and Pollux is daring Mason to ask, eyes measuring. Like stepping out into traffic and watching for the inevitable crash in slow motion, breath stalled in aching lungs and his pounding head. 

Expectations falling flat when Mason just breathes hard, fixing him with a stare that says too much.

Speaking has a nasty habit of making things feel too real and Pollux already feels too real right now. His shirt is scratchy against his arms, sweat dried on the back of his neck and he wants to scratch, to rip and pull at his cuticles. Needs to grab his hair and yank, yank, yank—

Tackled from behind, slammed into his car. Pinned to the door, arms yanked behind his back. Handful of his hair, slamming his head against the bonnet of the car. Once, twice—

kick back hard against the knee, only way out. Bones breaking under his foot, feeling the knee bow back and further back still.

Good.

Trapper screamed, an ear splitting scream. A punch hitting his cheek, head reeling and he hits the hood. World spinning, vomit rising in his mouth, grabbing the Trapper’s shirt. Slam his head into the hood of the car. Once, twice, three times quick with all his strength, metal buckling and crumbling, blood splattering. Trapper falls limp to the ground in a way that can’t be faked.

Blows and blocks stuttering in his head, the fighting caught between too slow and too fast, frames stuttering by.

Turn just in time to avoid the flash of something in another hand, something shining in the orange street light.

Can’t get stabbed, just need to grab the knife. Blinking, blinking, blinking and blinking again.

(grab the knife)

Overhead light swinging wildly, shadows and light making the bars of the cage dance against the walls. Tackled to the ground, foul smelling water soaking in his clothes, wetting his shaved head. Snarling, nails drawing bloodied lines across the face, fingers scrambling for the eyes. Get the eyes, the softest part. Grab and yank, dig his fingers into the supple and squishy—get the eyes, get the eyes--

(Grab the knife, grab the knife, grab the knife, grab)

“Pollux?”

He nearly jumps out of skin, quickly looking up at Mason and he blinks once, and once more. Mason’s looking at him over his shoulder, phone is pressed to his ear. He wears worry convincingly enough.

“We need to get you back to the agency to take care of this...”

Pollux frantically shakes his head, staring down at the ground as it spins.

“I told you I’m not going. I can take care of it.” He argues, his tongue like a heavy dead fish between his lips, flopping in the sun.

He’s too raw for this right now, the living room too dark, the singular light tearing into his head like a migraine. And the memories too close. He smells the dried blood already caked to the inside of his nose, legs jittery and he needs to go. The living room is both too tight and too much space.

“It’s not asking, it’s Ava ordering.“

“No. Tell Ava to go shove her orders up her fucking ass, I’m not going whether she likes it or not.” He’s trembling, heart racing in his ears.“Whether you like it or not.” 

Pollux looks up at him and Mason’s eyes narrow. Phone still in his hand, call still going and Pollux barely hears Ava demanding to know what’s going on. 

Tough shit, she’ll have to wait.

Mason looks away first and Pollux takes the chance, ducking inside his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Mason’s voice muffled through the door and he picks his way to the bathroom. Slams that door shut too, hoping that it makes even Ava wince through the phone. 

He flips the bathroom light on, wincing as his headache spikes, the dull off white light coloring his tiles a soothing beige. There’s no shadows here, but still he yanks open the shower curtain to make sure before he digs for the first aid kit under the sink.

He doesn’t know if Mason sticks around as he gets to work, stripping off his clothes. They’re splattered and soaked with blood, the fabric stiff and smelling sharp of iron and he heaps them in the bathtub to deal with later.

The standing mirror is both a blessing and a curse, his nakedness painted clearly in the harsh light. His ribs are already turning sickly pale and tinged with purple, the first signs of the rioting of bruising come the morning. There’s other spots littered across his body, a nice purple tinge from the base of his skull to his shoulder blades.

He sinks to the bathroom rug, the tile still leeching the heat of his narrow body away. He takes in the worst of the damage painting his face, examining the curves and plains decorated with bloodied contusions and more sickly grey skin.

There’s a brief flash to countless other bathrooms, some with off green buzzing lights and dirty concrete floors smelling of gasoline and urine. Others with a kaleidoscope of colors and bass thumping so loud it shook the mirrors; all only a distant thrumming, too busy caught up feeling like he was in nothing but a warm bathtub.

He blinks and it’s gone. Sighing out of the corner of his mouth, he fishes his crumpled cigarette carton from out of his pants, shaking one out.

\--

It’s a long while before he opens the bathroom door, busted lip stitched up, contusions covered with bandages and butterfly closures clinging to his cheekbone. The pain is dull, water still clinging to the glass and pain medication discarded on the tile counter.

It’s not dark with the blinds open, the moon nearly full and casting long lines that tinge the bedroom with navy blue.

Miraculously, Mason’s there.

Sitting in his laundry chair, hands clasped between his legs, grey eyes traveling up to find his eyes. Ava must’ve told him to stay, or Pollux vainly thinks he wanted to stay.

He takes careful steps through his bedroom until he’s standing in front of him, Mason’s gaze following him the full way--examining. 

There’s a storm raging in his eyes, lips pulled to a thin line and hands clasped tight. It’s not easy to pin point the lines and looks of distress in Mason’s face, but Pollux has poked enough buttons time and time again to know where his face creases.

“Mason?” Pollux murmurs, his name almost a jumble of letters and he creeps closer. Close enough that Mason tentatively reaches out--hesitating for a breath--before he relents and gently pulls him in. Arms wrapping around Pollux’s waist, face pressing against his bare stomach.

Pollux curls his fingers into Mason’s hair, running his fingers across his scalp in long steady soothing motions. He’s quiet as he clings, fingers smoothing down the vertebra of his spine, fingertips skipping over each bone. Pollux leans against him, resting his head in his hair, taking in the heady scent of freshly smoked cigarettes and warm incense. 

(What home smells like, Pollux can’t help but think.)

“I’m sorry...” Pollux mumbles and the silence carries on, Mason unsurprisingly quiet.

He’s got every right to be angry at him, to be frustrated because Pollux knows he does this every time. Like how a cowering dog backed into a corner only knows how to bite the hand that reaches out.

He only knows the push, not the pull--the biting. Tending his broken skin alone and his broken mind in garish bathroom lights or with doctors staring him down from across coffee tables littered with magazines.

He should know better by now, but it always easier said than done. Hands held out in help curl to fists or flatten to slaps far too easily. The words are the worst, spitting and angry and it’s easier to say the worst of others first. Poke at their pain so they don’t uncover his.

Pollux is just catching the shoe before it drops.

“Just...don’t. Not again sweetheart, please.” Mason speaks, pulling his face away and he stares up at Pollux. Face drawn tight and Pollux brushes a stray hair from off of Mason’s cheek, fingers gliding down to his jawline and Mason’s fingers find his, cupping his hand. Turning his palm to press a kiss there. More following, finding his wrist, looping scars reminding him of zip ties and metal chairs and he smothers those thoughts, finding Mason’s grey eyes to get lost in instead.

“I’ll try.” Pollux whispers and that’s all he has to offer, but Mason takes it with a soft nod. 

He takes all he has to offer, all he’s willing to give and never asking for more. Taking the steps along with him, waiting for him to find his words, a piecemeal affection assembled in the broken paths along the way--a puzzle with all the edges sanded off, but still trying to put it all back together.

“Are you going to stay?” Pollux asks, voice no louder than a murmur, cupping Mason’s face in both of his hands, thumb stroking the corner of his lip, the stubble he finds there.

“Yeah...I’m staying.” He whispers back. 

It all goes unsaid, arms gingerly wrapping around Pollux, picking him up as he stands. Still unsaid as they both climb into bed, Pollux’s fingers finding the hem of Mason’s shirt and he coaxes it off, lips meeting for just a moment. A taste of words unspoken in the millimeters between them, in the negative spaces as Mason wraps his arms around him, skin against skin.

Pollux’s hand finds his, spreading his fingers out in a fan, moonlight setting Mason’s freckles to glow and Pollux’s scars to narrow lines like shooting stars painted across knuckles. The birth of the universe written from palm to palm and Mason closes his fingers around his, drawing him back in. Pulling him back to earth, back to his apartment, back to his bed. Back to words unspoken and grey eyes meet, still thick with apologies and Mason closes his opened lips with a kiss.


End file.
